Travels in and near NJ in quest of nature's beauty

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NJWILDBEAUTY readers know that I treasure winter along our magnificent Jersey coasts. You may overlook the fact that we have three: The Atlantic, The Delaware River; and Delaware Bay. This is heaven for this Midwesterner, who never even saw saltwater until the summer between seventh and eighth grade. This is troublous for one who is all too aware of sea-level rise in the twenty-first century.

Tasha O’Neill Looking Back at the Mainland from the Barrier Island that is Sandy Hook in HOT September!

Two friends willingly planned a Sandy Hook jaunt for yesterday, not really realizing that it was Valentine’s Day. My companions that day were my former Packet editor, Ilene Dube, who insisted that I blog for her paper ages ago…, and my fine-art-photographer friend Tasha O’Neill. I owe my first blog, NJWILD for the Packet, and its successor, NJWILDBEAUTY to Ilene – who insisted I do this, when I did not know what a blog was!

Manhattan from Sandy Hook on a Windy Spring Day – North End of Barrier Island

We’d planned to visit Monmouth University first for three art exhibitions, especially James Fiorentino’s of Conserve Wildlife NJ. But the sun burst out as we headed due east, and Sandy Hook won post position.

Spermaceti Cove and Boardwalk, High Tide, January 2017

Ilene had not known such New Jersey treasures as Little Silver and Colt’s Neck, let alone the equestrian paradise of Monmouth County. Our drive through Rumson’s array of true mansions brought up amazing comparisons — Newport, Bar Harbor… And then we were crossing the glinting Navesink River, the Atlantic Ocean stretching into infinity before us. This Michigander can never believe that scene!

Verrazano and Tip of Manhattan from Sandy Hook’s Northernmost Trail

Birding Essentials: Kathleen and Jim Amon: January 2017

Red-throated Loon in Winter Plumage on Pond for Amons and Me: Jan. 2017

There are no fees for ‘The Hook’ in winter, and never for birders (because you’ll be hiking, not swimming, not parking at crowded beach sites of summer). I see us tumbling like children in our eagerness to get close enough to the waves. The ocean was a pale and delicate hue, baby-boy-blanket-blue.

Working Harbor in Winter, Across Navesink from Sandy Hook Preserve

No matter where we turned, everything was pristine and exquisite. The few sounds included mutterings of gulls and whispering waves.

Where the Rabbit Loped, January 2017

Later, on the wast side, we would be treated to the nature sound I cherish – murmurings among a flock of brant. These small goose-like birds, ==whose shape in the water echoes small air-craft carriers–, have only just arrived at ‘the Hook.’ They swam in determined flotillas, more tourists than residents, –zipping first here, then there, as if renewing old ties.

Ilene was fascinated to see all the osprey nests — some on human-built platforms; some on the chimneys of venerable yellow-brick military dwellings. Some platforms, especially at the hawk watch platform (north), had been emptied by recent storms.

Birding Spermaceti Cove in Winter — Seals on Skull Island off to our Left

Even though it was February, a heat haze of the most exquisite soft-slate-blue obscured not only the Verrazano Bridge, but also Manhattan’s Wall Street megaliths. Only nature was in view from the platform that day.

View from Hawk Watch Platform on Windy Spring Day

Grasses at Spermaceti Cove looked as though they’d been repeatedly beaten into submission by a glacier, not simply by recent high tides. Glistening mud of the inlet’s banks was spattered with deep raccoon ‘hand’-prints, where these nocturnal mammals had washed recent foods before eating.

Sandy Hook Marsh Grasses, January 2017

I am a realist. We are nowhere near the vernal equinox. But, yes, days are lengthening, amazingly at both ends.

Christmas on the Navesink River from Bahrs

Yes, every once in awhile, a balminess arrives. When three friends can celebrate together, even to feasting at Bahrs, the 100-year-old Highlands seafood restaurant high above the Navesink. Where we could down Delaware Bay oysters and other rare treats, before taking in all three art exhibits in three different buildings at Monmouth University, without wearing coats. Then drive home in golden light, through the Battlefield of Monmouth, without which we would not have a country.

When Birders Lunch at Bahrs

I cannot help wondering what our colonial heroes would think of the country they fought and many died to save, in so many New Jersey battles. But our is a noble history. Their pledging and/or giving their lives, their fortunes, but never their sacred honor, cannot be for naught.

Patriots’ Flag at Site of Battle of Chestnut Neck, in Pine Barrens

From start to finish, Mother Nature herself had given Ilene, Tasha and me treasured Valentines. The red and white, however, decorated Sandy Hook’s Storied Light, rather than hearts. Lighthouses and 13-Star Flags, however, always warm MY heart. I hope they warm YOURS!

Try beaches in winter!

Sandy Hook’s Heroic Lifesaving Station

And preserve every inch of open and historic space in magnificent New Jersey!

Tasha and I on her COLD April Birthday — at Bahrs, Sandy Hook Behind Us…

This post features a series of images of rare birds found with good friends, on last weekend’s Island Beach hikes. Yes, it was January. Yes, there’s been wild weather. Know that part of the lure in winter hiking lies in defying the elements, –being OUT THERE with Nature, no matter what! And, besides, with such friendships of this magnitude, only the highest good unfurls.

Merganser Male, by Brenda Jones

A series of Internet scenes of our rarities awaits — so you can see why it really didn’t matter that we did not fulfill our snowy-owl-quest this time.

***

So long as I’ve been writing about nature, I’ve been ‘on my soapbox’ that Nature does not ring down her curtain on or around Labor Day. Those of you who hike with me know that possibly my FAVORITE season to be outdoors is winter. It hasn’t been easy lately, but NJWILDBEAUTY readers know that we had a glorious day-long exploration of Plainsboro Preserve not long ago, threading our way among glorious arrays of ice.

Common Loon, Winter Plumage by Elisa De Levis from Internet

This past weekend, Ray Yeager, Angela Previte (superb nature photographers who live near Island Beach); Angela’s husband, Bob, -avid birder and extremely knowledge about all aspects of photography; ‘my” Intrepids, Jeanette Hooban and Bill Rawlyk and I met at the entry of Island Beach for a mid-day-long snowy owl quest.

Loon Take-off from Internet by Dave Hawkins from Internet

Despite our January reality, a handy aspect of I.B. treks is that, –on windy and wintry days–, you can ‘hike sideways’. I.e., get out of the wind by taking various oceanside and bayside trails, protected from gusts by dunes or forest or both . If you Google Island Beach, on NJWILSBEAUTY, you’ll find Bill, Jeanette, Mary Penney and me down there, in an autumn nor’easter about which none of us had somehow been warned. That storm grew more and more fierce, as we and a flock of playful merlins headed as far east as we possibly could. Those merlins were beating their way right into the height of those terrific winds. They executed abrupt and daring turns, to be intentionally blown back westward , right out over the bay. No sooner did the merlins vanish than they reappeared. We had no idea that birds, raptors, let alone merlins, PLAYED. In that same torrent of winds, and, yes, rain, hundreds of swallows were staging for migration. If we hadn’t been out in the elements, think what we’d’ve missed!

It didn’t take us long last weekend to discover that snowy owls do not like warmth, let alone snowlessness.

Female Merganser by Brenda Jones

Instead, we were given, –at the first bathing pavilion’s short boardwalk–. a smooth, rotund, swelling ocean, afloat with winter ducks of many species, all in dazzling winter plumage, otherwise known as full=breeding. Species after species of wild birds rose and fell upon voluminous swells. Each had the dignity of a monarch en route to or from coronation,. These birds were not feeding. They were not even interacting. Few were flying, though some did regularly join their relatives on that sea of molten jade. Hundreds rode the pillowy waves, which seemed almost determined not to crest or break. Mesmerized by the variety and serenity of these avian crowds, we paced back and forth on the warm solid sand for nearly an hour, enthralled.

Male Bufflehead by Brenda Jones.

I’m going to shock and/or let down a great many people when I say I had no need of a snowy owl that day.

Long-tailed ducks coming in for a landing by Ken Hoehn – papillophotos.com

We talked about the probability that the bird seen by naturalist Bill Rawlyk at entry may well have been a northern shrike, feeding at the crest of a laden bayberry shrub. Some years ago, at this identical spot, I had discovered this unique creature, being at I.B. then on a Bohemian waxwing quest. I had no idea what that ‘masked mocking bird’ could be. Calling Audubon when I returned home, describing the scrubby evergreens and bountiful bayberries, I was congratulated upon having found a northeren shrike. It happened again the next year at the same spot. Each time, the Audubon person asked my permission to list my find on the hot-line. Of course, this amateur birder gave a very pleased assent This weekend, Bill remarked on a certain intensity in the bird — slightly heftier, a bit whiter, an arrogance not seen in mockers. But it was the bayberry bush that decided us — major winter food for (otherwise almost chillingly carnivorous) shrikes.. Part of the fun of being with this merry crew of enthusiasts is playing the identification game.

Female long-tailed duck in winter/full-breeding plumage from Internet

Other trails that lured us that long sunny afternoon were the Judge’s Shack (#12) and Spizzle Creek. In no time, we had tucked our jackets, hats and gloves back into the cars. Most were beginning to regret not having remembered our sun block — all but the two professional photographersg us. Ray and Angela were having a field day with their immense legends, capturing so many species so gently afloat. I’ll let them share their masterpieces on Facebook and Ray’s RayYeagerPhotographyBlog. I’ll give you the Internet:

Snow was rare. Ice intriguing. At Spizzle Creek, we were all acutely missing ‘our’ osprey, egrets and herons of other seasons. Our gift there, though, was the presence of handsome brant. In our experience lately, brant sightings have become scarce. Certain essential grasses are not doing well along our coasts, which also happened during the Great Depression years — nearly depriving us of this handsome species.

When I tell people about our January beachwalks, my listeners seem puzzled-to-skeptical. We couldn’t have had better weather. Fellowship was at peak throughout. Angela’s husband, Bob, kindly served as sentinel for all the camera-wielders — alerting all as tide-thrust waves threatened to drown our footgear. Warm we were, but not even Jeanette was barefoot this time.

Angela and Ray knew exactly where to seek 1918’s array of snowy owls. But, after that all-star cast adrift upon molten silver waves, snowies had become “the last thing on our minds.”

Try winter trekking — surprises await!

Always remember, these rare species could not be here without the powerful advocacy of determined preservationists. Even though I work for D&R Greenway Land Trust, I’m very clear that the saving of our waterways is every bit as important.

In fact, I take the stand that, in our New Jersey, with its unique three (count them!) coastlines, the well-being of water is a thousand times more crucial. Under NO CIRCUMSTANCES must even one oil well take its place off our Shores!

Written some years ago, this poem resurrects a winter trip to Pere Marquette State Park with my sister, Marilyn, to southern Illinois. We stayed in Pere Marquette Lodge, which echoes Yellowstone’s and Yosemite’s. It is sited at the point where three rivers (Illinois, Missouri, Mississippi) course as one, –keeping the waters open, blessing the birds The rangers at Pere Marquette State Park told us at our dawn confluence (of naturalists), “Every black dot is an eagle.”

NJWILDBEAUTY readers know that I have learned to flee the irretrievable past, especially on holidays. Today, the day after Christmas, I had the privilege of guiding two friends, –Willing Hands with me at D&R Greenway,– on their first exploration of Plainsboro Preserve. This day fulfilled my inexplicable passion for visiting summer places in winter. Come with us — via Internet images, to a quarry that’s been turned into an unexpected haven.

My two favorite regions are its beechwood and the peninsula.

Deeper and deeper, –although so near Route 1–, we moved on glistening leaves into timelessness. We had no snow today, rather ice crystals and iced puddles and ice-signatured ponds and ice stars caught in moss and ice swirled with milkiness as though in an art nouveau gallery!

Our long silent trek through that wilderness of chinchilla-grey trunks held mystery, allure palpable to all three of us. A few nuthatches in the underbrush made no sound, save their soft rustling. We were glad to be beech-surrounded, for it kept this weekend’s wild winds from cheeks and noses, everything else on each of us being fully protected from elements.

Normally, the beechwood, –being a microclimate–, is 10 – 12 degrees warmer than the rest of our region in winter; that much cooler in summer. For some reason – [but of course we are not to implicate global warming] this entire forest –with one or two welcome exceptions==, had dropped all leaves now. As in maybe yesterday. Not only dropped them, but turned them the pale thin cream color they usually attain right before mid-April drop. April 15 is a long way off — when the trees need a burst of acid fertilizer to bring forth healthy crops of beech nuts. What this early leaflessness means to squirrels and other forest dwellers, I do not know. We did not really experience the temperature protection, possibly because this beechwood was bare.

Even so, off-season magic and beechwood magic persisted, enhanced as two white-tailed dear tiptoed just to our right, revealing no alarm at our very human presence.

One is most aware of McCormack Lake, former quarry, almost step of one’s explorations of this unique Preserve. Too near, lurk shopping centers and major organizational sites and whirring highways and too many condos and homes, and not enough farms. But the lake rests in this forested setting, like the Hope Diamond. I’d rather SEE this lake than the Hope Diamond.

The quarry lake was the deep smoky blue today of Maine’s October ocean. Winds were ever-present, wrinkling its surface until it resembled the cotton plisse fabric of childhood. We’d chosen the Preserve for the lake, , hoping to find winter ducks in abundance. Perhaps six small distant ones could have been buffleheads in size and coloring (varying proportions of black and white.) But ‘Buffies’ are diving ducks, and in all the time we walked the peninsula, we never saw them do anything but float like rubber duckies in a large blue bathtub. But they were charming and winsome, and their very distance-blurred field marks added to the magic.

[Tip of the Peninsula, recently ‘refreshed’, with welcome stone slab bench. But this scoured look is not the norm for this Preserve. Above our heads was a (seemingly never utilized) osprey platform. I always fret and had told them in the Audubon office that ospreys require a smaller, lower feeding platform. They do not eat their catch in the nest, for the scent could lure predators to their young. No feeding platform — no active nest, in my experience… Even so, it’s a magical place to sit and let the lake and all those unbroken reaches of forest speak to you. This is not osprey season, anyway!]

Brenda Jones’ Beaver in D&R Canal Near the Fishing Bridge

The most exciting part about the peninsula to me is that it preserves Pine Barrens flora on both sides of what is now “Maggie’s Trail.” Crusty lichen, cushy bitter green moss, cinnamon-hued oak leaves, paling sands. Think of roadsides in Island Beach, and you have that cushioned crustiness on both sides along Maggie’s Trail. Today, we had to deal with oddly ever-present sweet gum balls. Not only not Pinelands, but also way ahead of schedule. Hard to walk on – more difficult than on acorns peppering Berkshire trails in autumn. Sweet gum balls normally drop around Washington’s Birthday.

Brenda Jones Beaver Close-Up, Millstone Aqueduct

Everywhere we looked, along the main entry road and all the way to the tip of that peninsula, there was fresh beaver activity. Cascades of golden curled chips seemed still to be quivering after beavers’ midnight snacking. Everything from whip-thin birch saplings to hefty white oaks with burnt-sienna leaves lay strewn like jackstraws on either side of Maggie’s Trail. Some trees had lost only a few smidgens of bark. We wondered whether parents bring young to teach them to gnaw a few bark inches at a time. Then the creatures with the largest incisors take over. Of course, we didn’t see them, because beavers are nocturnal and we’re not!

For most of our trek, there was no sight nor sound of anything human — quite literally, my idea of heaven. Soughing, –the voice of wind in treetops–, was our companion throughout — somewhere between whispering and humming. Occasionally, a distant train whistle reminded us that centuries exist — not exactly the 21st.

Ice was everywhere — in the leaves, under the leaves, within the moss, turning puddles on the main road into a gallery of art nouveau and art deco designs. I had no camera this day, knowing I would need both hands for trekking poles with the ground itself that frozen. Sometimes, the absolute silence was broken by tinkle-crackling of invisible ice beneath leaves.

These pictures I have culled from the Internet, therefore. I hope they convey some sense of this haven lying so near to U.S.1 and Scudder’s Mill Road: (left on Dey, left on Scott’s Corner Road.) Enjoy them and let them lure you over to Plainsboro’s gem. There are wondrous child-centric programs through NJ Audubon at the handsome center. And a worthwhile nature-item gift shop. Bird feeders attract backyard birds near the building. Bluebird houses and what seem to be owl houses stud the landscape hither and yon.

MIddlesex County provides this history – I remember far more exciting realities about the former quarry, and something about space, and quarrels with locals who did not want to give up hunting and fishing rights. I provide this for those who need logistical information.

But for me, microclimate effect or no, Plainsboro Preserve is a journey of the spirit. I could hardly believe the temperature on my front door as I returned this afternoon — less than twenty degrees. For all those hours, we’d been warmed in ways that have nothing to do with mercury…

Plainsboro Preserve in Early Summer via Middlesex County Site:

A scenic view of the lake located within the Plainsboro Preserve.

​The Plainsboro Preserve is a cooperative project between the County of Middlesex, Township of Plainsboro and New Jersey Audubon Society. In 1999, 530 acres of land formerly owned by the Turkey Island Corporation and Walker Gordon Laboratory Company were acquired by the County and Township. Middlesex County purchased and owns 401 acres and provided a grant to the Township of Plainsboro for the purchase of an additional 126 acres. In 2003, the County purchased 126 acres of the former Perrine Tract to add to the Preserve. The Township added additional land to grow the Preserve and currently maintains responsibility for management of the County-owned portions.

At over 1,000 acres, the Preserve supports a diverse array of habitats and the 50-acre McCormak Lake, with over five miles of hiking trails for hikers, birdwatchers and nature enthusiasts. The New Jersey Audubon Society manages the Preserve and a 6500 square-foot environmental education center, providing year-round environmental education opportunities.

For more information on hours and programs, please visit the New Jersey Audubon Society at their website.

The Plainsboro Preserve is adjacent to the Scotts Corner Conservation Area that provides hiking, bird-watching, photography and nature study opportunities.

When one has a difficult mother, it can become essential to distance one’s self and family, particularly at the time of significant holidays. If one has a courageous husband, he may announce, as the parental car pulled out of our Princeton driveway after a particularly grueling visit, “That’s it. We are not letting her ruin another Christmas. We are going skiing at Waterville.”

My husband, Werner Oscar Joseph Edelmann (for full effect say with German accent) was 100% Swiss. Although he had not grown up skiing, we took it up as a family, the year we moved to Princeton – 1968. Shore friends, sitting on their dune-cushioned deck, insisted that our families learn together. It was August and steamy. Winter? WHAT Winter. We said yes.

I secretly hoped some disaster, like a broken leg, or death, would intervene before that crucial February challenge. None did. So we all began to learn to ski. The girls were in kindergarten and first grade. At Killington, they looked like bunnies in their fuzzy snowsuits and fat mittens, among a gaggle of other little beginners, huddled at the base of ‘the bunny slope.’

They, being half Swiss, did not remain beginners very long. In the year of our deliverance from my mother, they were teens who preferred ‘bombing the black lines’ – the expert slopes. Especially “Oblivion” in Waterville Valley, New Hampshire. The White Mountains were Werner’s choice for our runaway Christmas, because their ski school and an authentic Swiss lodge were run by Paul Pfosi. All Paul’s instructors were Swiss. Extremely demanding. “Ski marks on the inside of your ski boots” to prove you had your legs close enough together. Off-slope, they all delighted to converse in their native (unwritten) language with this tall, dark-haired, dark-eyed very determined American skier. Stein Eriksen in those years was our hero, our model.

No one would mistake us for Stein, but his example formed Pfosi’s Instructor Corps.

Swiss Copper Cheese Kettle in situ

Pfosi’s Lodge held the huge copper kettles we’d first seen in Emmenthaler, in which magnificent Swiss cheeses were precisely concocted. Only Pfosi’s kettles overflowed with silky evergreen boughs from nearby endless forests. Swiss Christmas music, such as relatives had carefully sent to Diane and Catherine over the years, pealed from hidden speakers. Conditions were ideal on the slopes, and for any number of days we almost forgot it was Christmas. But not quite.

Our family, over the years, had no experience of that Holiday beyond our own formal tree and hand-made-ornament tree, one by the living room fireplace, one by the family room’s slate hearth. Heaven to us was a fire in each room, the three of us in long plaid skirts and white lace blouses, playing our guitars and caroling for Werner in the family room. There’d always been the Nutcracker at Lincoln Center, and caroling in the neighborhood near Princeton’s Snowden Lane. Could Christmas find us in New Hampshire?

There was a tiny church in the village below the lodge. It felt very odd to go to church in ski clothes and apres-ski boots. Instead of a jungle of poinsettias in the Princeton church, but two tiny ones ‘decked’ this austere altar. Instead of instruments sustaining voices back home, a motley choir with cracking voices sang in a small wooden balcony high overhead. But it was Midnight Mass, and it did hold all the magic we needed. And the quivering voices underscored a somehow more memaningful reality.

We drove back up the mountain, past the restaurant where we’d had Christmas Eve Supper. We’d sat next to a live birch tree, somehow able to live and thrive indoors, reaching for the midnight sky. Between dinner and church, we’d been astounded by stars beyond counting, which seemed nearly blinding. But between church and the lodge, no stars. Instead, white swirls, glistening to be sure, of new snowflakes — no more welcome blessing in ski country at Christmas.

Back in our rooms — it must have been near 2 a.m. by now — we found dark Swiss chocolates wrapped in bright gold foil upon our pillows,. Pfosi’s had signed lacy old-fashioned Christmas cards with gilt arabesques, such as those which arrived every year from Tante Li, Onkel Joni, Cousin Vera and the rest of the family in and near St. Gallen. I cannot spell their Christmas message, but we all knew how to say it in Swiss — it sounded like FRO-LIKKA-VIE-NOCKTEN. One said this with certain notes in our voices which the girls had heard since babyhood..

Diane’s and Catherine’s room was right across the narrow hall from ours. They burst in, laughing all over. “Come Quick! Come Quick! Carolers!”

We “thrust open the windows, threw up the sash” onto a scene I will never forget. Snow circled, enfolding us as though we had been transported into the Milky Way. itself, Horses snorted and their visible breath mingled with the flakes. Yes, sleigh bells jingled. Tucked into hay in an old fashioned sleigh were male and female carolers, dressed as we had been for Mass, in ski parkas and ski mitts and knit hats. These voices sounded like tiny silver chimes, like bells, rising into the heavens in celebration.

And we’d thought Christmas was only in our family room…

It wasn’t every Christmas morning that opened on a trail named “Oblivion”!

May each of you find your special holiday exactly as you need it this year — and may its real message of Peace on Earth, Good Will, suffuse our entire planet.

Here is an ad from the 1970’s, when we were there:

ski watervi w va NEW HAMPSHIRE PFOSI S LODGE Willkommen! Paul Pfosi, Director of the Waterville Valley Ski School, invites you to enjoy the Swiss-American hospitality of Pfosi’s Lodge. Alodge unique in every way combining old world charm with the most modern American accommodations and conveniences; …

The future would bring Christmas in other realms:

In Aspen, we could ski through forests.

In Zermatt, the Materhorn always tantalized:

But the slopes held the magic:

BUT NOTHING EVER TOPPED CAROLERS IN THE HORSE-DRAWN SLEIGH OUTSIDE THE OPEN WINDOWS OF PFOSI’S LODGE OF WATERVILLE.

I am lucky to have friends who are willing to go on quests with me. NJWILDBEAUTY readers know that most of our pilgrimages have to do with nature in general and birds in particular. Others require history. Many involve food. This is a jaunt with superb poet Betty Lies, friend-of-long-standing and co-founder of Princeton’s Cool Women Poets. We needed Christmas one year, and Bordentown unexpectedly provided it, ‘in spades’ Saunter with us… through this town of great significance, always too little appreciated in our time!

The Caboose was always my favorite part of real trains. There was frequently a trainman in that car who waved to me, as though he’d been waiting all day for that very moment…

Trains had a great deal to do with childhood Christmas in Michigan. One year, Santa brought me an intricate Lionel train set, even though there were only daughters in our family. Each year after that, it circled and tooted merrily under the tree. I had forgotten that… regret that we did not weave that in as I raised my own daughters.

ALL ABOARD!

In Bordentown, it’s as though the village itself is wrapped for the Holiday.

Our Favorite Place to Eat — Old-World and Leisurely

In Bordentown, Always Look Up — The Past is Waiting

Beauty of Emptiness, Bordentown Streetcorner

Jester’s — Home of the Hearty Welcome

Historic Mural of Strategic Bordentown – site of lost Revolutionary Battle, Thomas Paine’s only bought property, superbly venerable Quaker Meeting House, home of America’s first sculptress, Clara Barton’s schoolhouse, and both Joseph and Charles Lucien Bonaparte – sent to Point Breeze for its magnificent ‘aspect’ over the Delaware, by Napoleon himself.

SITE OF THE RIVER LINE TRAIN – FREE BEAUTIFUL RIVERSIDE PARKING FOR ALL-DAY JAUNTS – through Marsh to Trenton or down to Roebling, Burlington, Riverton, Riverside, Camden and even Walt Whitman House and Aquarium…

And, Most Ethereal of All Bordentown’s Gifts: Mother’s Day Festival of the Most Exquisite Iris Ever Anywhere!